Revisionist History

soon:more info, pre-orders, previews, etc etc. for now the cover, my god i love paris and i am so glad this photo came out

this spot is literally my favorite place in the entire world. base of the seine adjacent to bastille, late spring, mid-afternoon. when i die let it be here

writing has become exponentially more difficult because on one hand there’s opinions all over the internet for literally every point of view possible, and adding to that static is a fool’s errand. additionally, nothing really matters in terms of how culture can impact society anymore. it is blatantly obvious that worldwide only wealth matters.

sure there’s shit that makes money and people follow along, but that’s just the snake of capitalism eating itself. Uber and Twitter have swindled their losses into the public domain. the economy of the United States has always been how to fuck over others for personal profit.

I think if was writing clickbait headlines I would spend each night trying to not stick my hands in a vat of acid.

it’s a legitimate issue, one that has been brewing for some time. ever since punk rock was appropriated to mainstream culture with Manic Panic hair dye, capitalism has been consuming the creative avenues of rebellion. we’re running out of ways to protest that don’t involve guillotines.

(i’m not convinced this is a bad thing.)


—i’ll be reading some poems from my summer project of poetry&photographs, Revisionist History, which may be streaming on instagram, 8-11pm irish time.

either way I should have the book ready for release in november

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

—Frank O’Hara, from Meditations In An Emergency